Crisp

The patterns play on the edge
  lacy, fragile, gentle
No clue of the killing power
  held in its icy grip
Just beauty left in traces
  on the grass
In dead leaves, on the ground
  crunching beneath your feet
A whole new world exists
  in the cycle of dying
Coming on the edge of time
  a beauty of memory
Left behind in traces
  when the rain finally
Subsides and leaves us
  cold to breath again